


I'm going numb, I've been hijacked

by nakamaRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Angst, M/M, Referenced Mpreg, Referenced child, Self-Doubt, cottage by the sea, hard to fly with no wings, light fluff, nothing descriptive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 09:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakamaRose/pseuds/nakamaRose
Summary: In which Aziraphale laments on his own loss he’s suffered as he and Crowley try to live again.





	I'm going numb, I've been hijacked

**Author's Note:**

> I'm utterly and completely in love with Good Omens and everything about it, I love these two boys and just want them to be happy in every possible way. Just not in this particular iteration.

_“We could be oceans_

_And gorgeous poems._

_We could be breaking waves_

_And dangers made of flame”_

— _“We could be Oceans”_ , excerpt by Matthew Foley

Water.

With it comes the ability to sustain life, to create homes, to create mystery and wonder, to even heal the most broken of souls and it is all wrapped up in a blanket the same color as the sky. Humans have long since forged a bond so inexplicably intertwined with water, gathering near it and creating villages, towns, and cities based on water’s ability to create new life in a way which they could, in turn, create life of their own.

Throughout the centuries he had walked the Earth, Aziraphale had noted time and time again, the importance of water. He had taken part in bathing openly with others during the reign of Augustus when stationed in Rome, soaking in the immense wash of contentment and enjoyment which often covered these areas. Earlier still, he had witnessed the mighty force with which gigantic waves roared to life as if mythical creatures, swallowing the whole of the land to leave nothing of what was once there. Awe-inspiringly terrifying to be presented with a non-human entity that could take just as easily as it gave.

Despite it all, Aziraphale felt himself drawn to the water, as if an invisible voice was calling out to him. He didn’t suspect it was Her because She had never spoken to him directly—not since _that day_ of course— but as far as he could remember, he had only ever felt Her presence. A caress to the face whenever the wind would blow, a soft press of lips to the cheek whenever the petals of flowers reached for his face, a warm brush of a hand as birds came to perch of his shoulder. She was there with him, but whenever he looked out where the land met with the horizon, Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel as if something else was beckoning him forward. Motioning for him to turn away and fall.

He reached a hand out, fingers disappearing into the molten light of the setting sun that set the sky ablaze with vibrant oranges and pinks and purples. He stood near the edge of the chalky cliffs of the South Downs which was their home, their sanctuary, theirs and theirs alone. His loafers of his right foot crept ever closer, a weight in his chest intensifying when above him came the loud and long cries of seagulls. Eyes as blue as the sea are cast skyward, watching as the sea faring birds glide effortlessly past him and out towards the ocean. He wishes he could follow, he whishes he could move about as freely as they do, so high in the sky just as he had once been when the world was young and fresh.

A gust of wind, the sigh of the grass, a brush of fingers against the cuff of his coat. He turns his eyes back down from the sky, sees his own weary gaze reflected back at him from steampunk-esque sunglasses. The grip is firm yet gentle, a soft suggestion to come back down even when his feet could do nothing more than scrape against the dirt covered ground now.

It wasn’t always like this— “Come home,” a low timber, rumbling up from a creature who knew all too well the sort of look he was being given inadvertently— it used to be easier, if one could believe such a thing.

-.-

Once it had all been said and done, when everything finally settled back into the realm of normalcy and the Earth itself released a breath that had been held for too long, Aziraphale had popped the question.

It came to him one night, as he and Crowley were a tangled mash of limbs and bedsheets, that he might prefer life outside the hustle and bustle that London had become. That he could see himself slowing down to take the time he had, until recently, believed was to be cut short and torn away from him. But weeks after, just as he had brushed his lips against Crowley’s temple as he ran his fingers through flaming hair, the thought roared to life and seized nearly every waking thought that wasn’t spent basking in his newfound relationship with the Demon.

That night he finally closed his eyes, slowed his breathing to match Crowley’s and let his thoughts slow to crawl and when next he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by the cry of the sea with the scent of salt wafting in the air around him.

-.-

Aziraphale stands near the edge, peering over cautiously to marvel at the fine bits of crushed rock that glitter and sparkle like the most expensive jewels. Before him lays the vast expanse of the sea, waves rising and falling onto the shore below before falling back only to rise and then fall once more in an almost hypnotizing fashion.

It was even more beautiful in person and the Angel takes a moment to close his eyes, to truly breathe as he’s not been able to for what seems like 6,000 years. Let’s his lungs fill with a richness his mind could have once only imagine and the whisper of a breeze comes to plays with the tufts of his curls. Something deep within him begins to unfurl, begins to stretch and reach and climb as if something within him had remained dormant until this precise moment of unabashed pleasure. He breaths deeper still, feels his shoulders rise as his head points directly towards the Heavens above before he exhales. The sound low and breathy—the way it gets when it’s his turn to roll his body forward and sink himself in a heat he never knew could feel so warm and welcoming— as he lowers his head until it’s level once more, eyes half-lidded when they open.

A wash of flame catches his attention and he turns his head just as the wind picks up and plays with the bright color of Crowley’s hair. The Demon has started to grow his hair out again, the natural wave in it steadily returning the less he styles it with product. Aziraphale is quite taken by it, has always adored Crowley with long hair, luscious locks of molten lava that he had been disappointed to see chopped away when they had crossed paths in Rome.

But now, now that they were free—and truly free, just not for this singular moment but for as long as Aziraphale could feasibly imagine and that was just as intoxicating as traversing the long expanse of Crowley’s chest—now that they no longer were under the thumbs of their respective Office’s, they were now able to live.

And what a life they are going to make.

“You’re doing it again,” comes Crowley’s voice, low yet soft, a brush of nails down his back to scratch at an itch he didn’t know he could have. Aziraphale focuses on the openness of Crowley’s gaze, the Demon’s eyes on full display with his glasses tucked into the breast pocket of his black long-sleeved dress shirt. He’s always been fascinated with those eyes, those orbs of yellow so golden it puts a necklace made out of it to shame. Makes the crowns of the emperors and princes he had seen rise and fall, dull and uninspiring compared to the emotion dripping from just a quirk of a brow and a tug of lips.

Was this what love felt like?

“Ah,” he says when he finally comes back to himself, and he clasps his hands in front of himself as he is want to do, “does it annoy you?”

A curl of lips, a hint of mirth soaked in a love which had marinated for a millennium, eyes that twinkled with well-intended mischief.

Crowley merely sniffs at this, tilting his pointed chin up towards the sea before letting his eyes fall closed. Around him a sort of energy whirls, kicking up the grass around them and commanding it to sway to and fro and when it settles again and Crowley breathes out, his wings are present.

They truly are a sight to see, the feathers long and darker than the darkest of nights with a sheen Aziraphale can only acquaint to the stars dotting the evening sky with the way they almost seem to shimmer and glow. He spreads them up high, the very tips reaching towards the sky before he brings them back out to splay them out on either side of him.

“Nothing you do could ever annoy me, Angel,” he speaks once he’s done, molten orbs of sunlight turning to gaze upon him with an emotion so raw and so unfiltered that it catches Aziraphale’s breath, steals it from his lungs when the Demon extend a hand out to him in invitation.

“How long as it been? At least 2,000? Possibly more?”

“More even, I’ve not flown since the earliest days of Creation”.

A gentle laugh spills from Crowley’s mouth as those lips turn into a full smile and Aziraphale reaches out to clasp his hand, never wanting to let that smile drop from the Demon’s face.

His own wings rise out from the ether, unfurling with a flourish and beating heartily in the air, the very tips brushing to stroke the grass underneath.

Crowley leads, holding onto Aziraphale’s hand tight as he takes them off over the edge. Wind whips and whirls in and around his ears as he falls but he’s too focused, too trained on the way Crowley looks at him, hair dancing back and forth temptingly, drawing him in closer and closer and closer still. Until their bodies are pressed flush against one another, their wings tucked against their backs as they lock hands and fall, the ground rushing up to swallow them.

But like Eagles, they break away at the last moment, black and white fanning out and to push a burst of air into the sand below them, spraying it up in the air as they fly closely to the surface of the sea.

Aziraphale is laughing, high and bright, and he beats his wings once, then twice, before he’s ahead of Crowley, the Demon banking left and right as he soars behind him. Aziraphale continues on, bringing out a hand to skim against the surface of the water, trailing the tips of his fingers in it until he gives one large thrust downwards, hand closing around a fistful of water as he skyrockets upwards. A rivulet of ocean follows him, snaking back and forth to create a crisscross pattern around him before he pushes his wings out, causing the water to burst at contact and spray onto Crowley who lazily beats his wings below him, gazing up with shielded gaze.

Yes, South Downs would make an excellent home.

-.-

He lets himself be led back to their cottage; the sky having gone dark with a spattering of stars dotting it. The arm wrapped around his shoulder brings him some comfort, the weight familiar and welcoming as Crowley opens the door with a flick of his wrist.

Downstairs is dark, save for a wash of light cascading down the hallway that’s tucked away to the far-left corner of the house. Aziraphale lets his eyes wander over to there, flicking them up at Crowley who gives him a reassuring nod despite not meeting his gaze.

“She’s all tucked in, sound asleep, come on”.

Aziraphale wants to say more, feels like he should, but the words die in his throat when he spots the high chair still propped up against the kitchen table. Bits of a small cake strewn about it and he momentarily feels a wash of guilt and panic settle uncomfortably in his chest, twisting at his stomach until he’s prodded further into their home and pressed gently into one of the tall backed chairs in their sitting room.

Crowley wordlessly drapes a weighted blanket onto his lap, patting his legs before turning around to bend slightly in front of the grate to their fireplace. The Demon holds out a hand, speaking softly to himself before a small, crackling fire sparks to life. He rises back upright, placing a hand on his hip before turning his body to partially face Aziraphale, the light from the flames casting dark shadows to play across his long body.

“I’ll put the kettle on, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, merely turns back to stare into the flames for a long heartbeat and then moving back towards Aziraphale, reaching a hand out to squeeze his forearm before wandering off to the kitchen.

Aziraphale sits there, hands resting beneath the blanket as he stares into the fire, the light reflecting in his blue eyes. There’s some guilt, not quite as all-encompassing as it was just seconds ago, but it’s there all the same. Crowley had been plagued—and still occasionally woke from a dead sleep screaming and sobbing— by vivid nightmares weeks after Armageddon had been stopped. It always centered around fire and heat and desperation as Crowley had walked into a blazing bookshop in search of him only to discover that Aziraphale had vanished.

But to Crowley, he had been _murdered._

It was why, back at the bookshop in Soho, the Demon had scoured the place in search of the candles he now knew Aziraphale kept. He had gathered them all, banished them with a sharp snap of his long fingers, and had then spent months as a serpent hiding away in the rafters.

But then they had come out to the South Downs, leaving behind their old homes in order to start anew as a family of three and Aziraphale had unthinkingly created their sitting room centered around the idea of a warm and cozy fireplace. He’d anxiously hovered around Crowley, the Demon bouncing their daughter up and down quickly as he had spotted and smelled the fire from the threshold of the front door.

“Only in winter,” had come the condition, voice thick and heavy as the Demon had gone on about his inspection while Aziraphale had quietly agreed.

Now though, on a cool Summer’s evening, the Demon had gone and brought the fire to life, had whispered onto the logs and caused them to ignite and crackle. And it was nice, as much as it made Aziraphale think back to those long nights of shakes and cries, it filled his very being with a warmth that he felt had since, been carved roughly from him with the tip of a flaming blade. The scars still plain and evident all around his body even though he mostly hid them away from the prying eyes of his increasingly curious Isobel.

And oh, oh poor sweet Isobel. Today had been her first birthday, the day she had pulled air into her lungs and announced her presence to all who would defy her. Crowley had spent part of the day baking her cake and setting out a simple gift of a stuffed bear whose bright beaded eyes and stitched mouth made his heart clench and ache in a peculiar way. Aziraphale had dreaded this day, had dreaded the months leading up to his daughter’s birthday—and what kind of parent was he that he felt nothing but soul crushing despair and anguish upon a day which should be filled with joy and lighthearted cheer. He hadn’t been in the state of mind a week after Gabriel and his followers had waltzed into his bookshop and whisked both himself and a heavily pregnant Crowley away from Earth and away from the home they had created.

Time had passed differently then, when they’d been away, and it had felt like months when in reality, only a week down below had passed. But it was enough time regardless of where they were, because the pain and suffering had etched itself into Aziraphale’s heart. Even more when he awoke a week later—back bloodied and bruised near his shoulder blades—to see the sight of a fatigued Demon cradling a small bundled body.

Aziraphale had been out of sorts for months after. He found he couldn’t even so much as hold Isobel in the early days of her infancy, let alone stand the achingly endearing way she would cuddle against his chest and sigh whenever Crowley got done bathing her or feeding her. It was near enough to drive him mad, push him over the edge of a cliff he hadn’t realized he’d been hovering over until his daughter had entered the world while he’d been flitting between Above and Below.

Just remembering it now—and even with the warmth of the fire and the security of the weighted blanket—was enough to cause a chocked sob creep past his lips. Aziraphale bowed his head, hands coming up to grab as the short curls of his hair, tugging on them as images of his disowned stock bombarded him. Their taunts high and singsong as they danced around him, holding him down as they slashed and tore into him. He could feel the sting of the blade bite into him, heat rising up through his back and unfurling around him as he thrashed and arched against it as he felt a part of himself snap and break away like a bandage from skin.

“Angel”.

No, that wasn’t what he was. Not anymore, not in the sense that most humans thought of when presented with that particular word.

His eyes that had snapped shut open wide, head coming up to stare into worried serpentine eyes, the depths of them bleeding out and sending waves upon waves of reassurance and affection. It beat down onto him like the waves of the ocean just beyond their cottage, lapping against the shore until a little more of it wore away each time and the waves were able to climb further, further, further.

“It was her birthday,” he hears himself croak and when all Crowley offers is a small nod and endearing smile, he rushes forward and wraps his arms around the Demon’s neck and pushes his face against the flesh he finds and breaths in deeply like a man breaking through to the surface.

All the while, Crowley rocks them slowly back and forth, resting his arms on the small of Aziraphale’s back as he hums the lullaby he sings to their daughter. An almost haunting melody that sways in around them, circling around their torsos and gripping their throats. One that dances as they did so long ago, fingers just shy of clasping onto one another until the last possible second and presses them exponentially closer until one cannot tell where Aziraphale begins and Crowley ends.

“We’ll get there,” Crowley breaths, eyes boring into his as the Demon presses his forehead against his own, “you taught me that, my love”.

It chases away the growing darkness, chases the inky tendrils that wrap themselves around his wrists and keep him pinned to the ground. Fills him instead with an indescribable emotion he feels he can never truly put into words. So instead, he presses his mouth against the Demon’s, pours all of the words he has never spoken aloud into the way he moves and slips his tongue against Crowley’s own. Shows him how much he could never live again without the Demon by his side as he tangles his fingers in the long strands of hair and pulls.

Not yet, but one day soon, Aziraphale believes he’ll be ready to cement his future with Crowley. But for now, this is enough to keep him alive, to keep him breathing and waiting for the following day when the sun rises and breaths fresh life onto the world they saved together.


End file.
